


John and Mary Go Out to Dinner

by Englishtutor



Series: The Other Doctor Watson [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, dinner date, newlyweds, normal life? what's that?, six-months anniversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which our intrepid newlyweds John and Mary attempt to carve out an evening from their busy lives in which to spend quality time together. Alone.  Will they ever succeed in their quest for a romantic dinner out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Herons in Hyde Park

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place during the fifth and sixth months of the Watson's marriage.

“I pity anyone who isn’t me,” she exalted dramatically, swinging her free arm in an emphatic arc which included all the world. Her other hand was looped inside his arm and clutched his elbow companionably. “My life is absolutely lovely; everyone should be as happy as I am.”

John laughed at his wife’s theatrics. “Well, I’d be out of work, then, wouldn’t I?” he joked. “If everyone were as excessively happy as you, there’d be no crimes committed for Sherlock and me to solve.”

“Hmm. True,” Mary nodded agreeably. “Just a bit more happiness might ease up the workload a trifle, though.” John understood her sentiments. It was a particularly beautiful day in late autumn; the air was amiably warm with a soft, sensuous, intermittent breeze; the sky had been a particularly perfect shade of blue with just the essential number of startlingly white clouds, and was now gently greying into twilight. And they had had the entire afternoon off: the first time in four months-- since their honeymoon, in fact--that they had both had time off work simultaneously.

“I adore our life,” she went on. “My clinic is lovely. Your Work is lovely. Our marriage is lovely. The only drawback is that we don’t get times like today often enough—time just to ourselves, without the pressure of work on our minds.”

John chuckled at her overstated rhetoric. “I love the fact that you think everything is lovely,” he commented cheerfully. On days like today, his wife made him feel twenty years younger. Too often, he felt much older than his years; and he was, in fact, twelve years older than Mary. (Just this morning, Lestrade had ribbed John again about robbing the cradle, leaving him feeling perfectly ancient.) And too often, he felt like damaged goods; scarred not just physically, but emotionally. He’d seen too much of death and destruction; he’d had too many ‘bad days’, in which he’d been forced to commit acts of violence that permeated his soul. But Mary could make him feel like a young man again—a young man who had never yet gone to war; who had never yet killed anyone; who had never yet held a life in his hands and felt it slip away in spite of his best efforts and medical skill. Mary made him better.

Finding themselves with an afternoon in which to do anything they liked, they had opted for a walk through Hyde Park. John teased Mary for being a cheap date; but they both enjoyed the simplicity and serenity of an aimless stroll. Now they found an isolated bench off the path overlooking the Serpentine. John curled his arm around Mary’s shoulders and they sat with heads together, watching the evening close in over the water.

“There’s a heron,” Mary said in a hushed voice. “Isn’t it beautiful? This is my favorite park.”

“Every park is your favorite park,” John teased.

“That’s true,” she admitted good-naturedly. “The park I’m in is always my favorite. We should try to do this kind of thing more often, Captain, don’t you think?”

“Go to the park?” 

“Go out. You know, just you and me, on a date.”

He looked at her and wondered how he’d been so neglectful. They had been married almost five months. Was this really the first time he’d taken her out in all that time? What was wrong with this picture?

“Of course we should, love. I’m sorry. We’ve let ourselves get too busy.”

“Oh, I know. I realize you can’t make plans. The criminals don’t consult our calendar before they commit crimes, after all. But maybe we can be more spontaneous in grabbing a chance when we get it, however unexpectedly. Like we did today.”

“We will. I promise. We’ll try to go out once a week, at least, whenever the opportunity presents itself,” John said emphatically. 

She snuggled into his side happily. “That will be lovely.”

“On our way home,” John continued, “we should go to that little bistro on the corner we’ve been talking about trying.”

“Perfectly lovely!” Mary declared again, and John laughed quietly and nuzzled her ear.

“I think if I suggested sumo-wrestling a crocodile, you’d say it would be ‘lovely’, wouldn’t you?” he said fondly.

“I think YOU are perfectly lovely, and so anything we do together is lovely,” Mary chuckled. “Good lord, that didn’t half sound sappy, did it?”

Their shared laughter frightened the heron away. And then John’s phone signaled a text.

He groaned. “I’m sorry, I should have turned that off.”

“No, no. It might be important,” Mary countered, leaning forward and pushing his arm from around her shoulders. “Better check it.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I cannot find the handcuffs,” John read aloud.

“Oh, my,” Mary murmured. 

Far left-hand kitchen drawer. What’s going on? JW

Thank you. Don’t concern yourselves. The situation is well in hand. SH

“Maybe we should. . . .” Mary began.

John cut her off. “No. He’s perfectly competent to take care of things himself. And if he’s progressed to needing handcuffs, obviously the situation is under control,” he insisted, with more confidence than he felt. He put his arm around his wife once more and tried to recapture the moment. But like the heron, their carefree mood had flown.

Forgive my intrusion, but where is the med kit? SH

Beneath my armchair. Are you all right? JW

John was beginning to feel alarmed. “If he can text, he’s okay, right?” he reasoned. “He’s an adult. He can take care of himself. Right?” They were both now leaning forward, tensed and uneasy, heads together over the phone, waiting for the return text.

Don’t trouble yourselves everything is fine SH

Mary read the message on John’s phone and gasped.

“Oh, Captain! This is serious! He omitted punctuation!”

Out of sutures suggestions please SH

“Oh, bloody hell! We’ve got to go!” John exclaimed. He grabbed Mary’s hand and they started sprinting to the nearest gate. As they climbed into a taxi, John’s phone signaled again. This time, it was from Lestrade.

What the hell, John? Sherlock sent me a text with a misspelling. Should I call for an ambulance? 

John and Mary never did get their dinner that night.


	2. Halfway There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Watsons seize an opportunity to go out to dinner. They make it halfway there.

A light rain was misting as they walked down the street. John cuddled Mary’s hand in his right hand and held an umbrella over them with his left. She felt let out of prison after a week of living at Sherlock’s. Other than going to the clinic each day, she had not stirred out of the Baker Street flat since the “incident”. Poor John had not even had the diversion of an outside job but had been attending physician, chief cook, and housekeeper for the injured detective, constantly on call. 

“He’ll be okay by himself for a bit, won’t he?” Mary worried.

“He’s had concussion before. And he’s had a week to recover. He’ll be all right,” John assured her. 

“I don’t mean that,” Mary fussed. “Those two men who broke in and tried to kill him—Greg said they were hired by someone. What if that someone tries again? Sherlock easily subdued the first attack alone, but could he now, in his condition?”

“You know Mycroft’s got someone watching the flat. He’s being well looked-after. Let’s try to enjoy our evening, shall we? I promised you we’d try to go out once a week, and here’s our chance!”

In fact, Sherlock had practically thrown them out on their ears. “I can’t stand any more of your tip-toeing about, being solicitous and feeling guilty!” he’d cried in exasperation. “This wasn’t your fault. You don’t need to keep trying to make it up to me. And I’m quite recovered; I don’t need your nursemaiding. Go away and do . . . whatever it is married people do in the evenings. I have some experiments to work on. Can I never have a moment to myself?”

This odd mixture of magnanimity and selfishness sent them scurrying out into the drizzle, feeling an equally odd mixture of concern and elation themselves. They planned to walk the few blocks to Angelo’s for dinner and then go back to check on Sherlock before heading home to their own flat. 

“It will be nice to be home again, after a week,” Mary was saying, and then gasped. Down the street ahead of them, they saw a young man shove an elderly woman down on the pavement and violently twist her handbag off her arm, then pelt off into the twilight. Immediately, the pair began to run. John thrust the umbrella into Mary’s hand and sprinted on after the thief; Mary dropped to the wet pavement beside the frightened, sobbing victim.

“Someone call the police,” she ordered the growing crowd of gawkers with an air of authority. Then, “Are you all right, dear?” she said soothingly to the old lady. “There, now. I’m a doctor. Where are you hurt?”

A middle-aged woman who had been walking with the victim offered to hold Mary’s umbrella, freeing her hands to feel for broken bones. After a few minutes, Mary was satisfied that the victim was suffering from nothing more serious than bruises and scrapes and a great deal of fright. Pulling a small med kit out of her handbag, she quickly cleaned up the worst of the abrasions and covered them with gauze.

“My money. My pictures,” the woman wept. “My babies’ pictures. My phone.” The middle-aged friend cried with her, no help at all.

“Did someone call for the police?” Mary demanded as she helped the woman off the pavement and led her gently to a bench. One onlooker indicated he had, and she smiled her thanks. “All right, now, it’s going to be all right,” she reassured the still-weeping victim. “My husband will recover your bag, safe and sound. He’s an honest-to-God war hero, you know, and a crime-fighter as well. He’s used to dealing with criminal types. Calm down, dear, it’ll be all right.”

Mary turned to the middle-aged friend. “I’m going to run up the street and find out what’s happening. You wait here for the police. You can keep my umbrella—I’m sopping anyway. Just stay here and let her rest until the police come. Do you understand?”

The two women, both still in shock, nodded numbly. Mary sighed, not certain she should leave them in such a state. But she was desperate to find out what was happening to her husband. She took off down the pavement at a jog, looking for signs to tell her which way he might have gone. 

A spilled display at a fruit stand; a knot of distressed-looking people at a bus stop; a woman chasing the contents of her shopping bag across the pavement: these clues led her just so far. Then the evidence stopped and she lost the trail. “Captain!” she called out, not really expecting a reply and receiving none.

She noticed a man at a taxi-stand looking her way curiously. “Did you see a lovely, military-looking chap chasing a juvenile delinquent down this way?” she asked him hopefully.

The man indicated an alley just down the street. “Need any help?” he asked.

Mary stared at him, incredulous. “I’m sure he could have used a hand, but it’s rather too late now, isn’t it?” she stated, and then trotted towards the alley entrance.

“Captain?” she called again, peering into the shadowy alley. It was now raining in earnest, and growing quite dark. She couldn’t see a sign of him.

“Down here, love,” came the familiar voice from behind a skip. John sounded a bit winded, but happy. These kinds of events always exhilarated him. Mary hurried to his side.

John was crouching over the young thief with his knee in the small of the perpetrator’s back. The teenager, a hulking six-footer built like a footballer, had a split lip and a bloody nose and was struggling and hurling abuse at his captor. John, she was pleased to note, had not a mark on him and was calmly holding the boy’s crossed wrists in his hands, barely noticing the struggle and completely ignoring the vitriol.

“Need a hand, Captain?” she asked, amused.

“Would you get one of the zip ties out of my pocket? My hands are a bit occupied at the moment,” he smiled.

“I’d enjoy that a great deal,” Mary replied cheerfully. “No, don’t tell me which pocket. Searching is half the fun.” She patted him down until she found the zip ties.

“How’s the victim?” John inquired.

“Bruised and knocked about, but all right,” Mary told him. “No thanks to this chap. She could have broken a hip! Shall I?” She indicated the zip tie in her hand.

“Be my guest,” John offered generously.

“Oi! That hurts!” the young thief complained as she fastened his wrists together.

“Oh, dear,” Mary said without regret. “I must have fastened them too tightly. I might have cut off circulation a bit.”

“No worries, love,” John assured her, standing up and flexing his hands to relieve the cramps. He put one foot on the teen’s back to stop him getting up. “I’m sure the police will arrive before he loses the use of his hands. He probably won’t get gangrene from it. You know, when I was in Afghanistan, I saw men get their hands chopped completely off as punishment for thievery.”

“Hey!” the boy cried, but they ignored him. Standing over him, Mary was kissing her Captain in relief at finding him completely unharmed.

Then together, they pulled the thief to his feet and walked him down the alley, back towards the scene of the crime. Returning the stolen bag to the old lady, who now wept with gratitude, they turned their captive over to the authorities and spent the next hour and a half giving their statements in the pouring rain. 

Back in the Baker Street flat, an ice-cold, exhausted couple shed their sodden clothes and put on warm night things. They would not be going home that night after all. Their flat just seemed too far away. Instead, they curled up before the fire and tried to stop shivering; and this time, it was Sherlock who was solicitous, bringing them tea and covering them with a blanket.

But John and Mary never did get their dinner that night.


	3. All Dressed Up . . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our couple attempts to celebrate their six-months anniversary in style. And we discover a secret from Mary's past.

He felt terrible. It was their six-month anniversary, and they had reservations at a very fine restaurant. They had actually dressed and were on their way out the door. And then Lestrade had called.

“I’ll go with you,” Mary had said cheerfully. “Maybe it’ll be an easy case, and we can still make it on time.” John looked at his wife, sitting beside him in the taxi, looking absolutely stunning in her new dress with her hair put up just so. He wasn’t sure why she put up with him. Six months, they had been married, and since their honeymoon he had not managed to so much as take her out to dinner even once. He sighed.

“Captain! Don’t be that way!” she coaxed him. “Your work with Sherlock is important. And it isn’t something you can schedule. I knew that when I married you. Actually, I knew that before we ever started seeing each other. It’s one of the things that made me want to be with you.”

John smiled at her affectionately. “Because you’re a masochist?”

She snorted with laughter. “Because you’re amazing at what you do. I love watching you work. Captain, believe me, it’s a treat to me to get to watch you work at a crime scene.” She leant over and kissed him. 

The crime scene was in fine, old Georgian home in Highgate, near the cemetery. The knot of police cars and the garish yellow crime scene ribbon looked incongruous in the splendid old neighbourhood. John watched his wife look appreciatively around at the beautiful gardens surrounding the houses up and down the street and marvelled at her ability to see the fun in every situation in which she found herself. 

A scandalized Sgt. Donovan met them at the door. “All right, the doc can go in, but what’s SHE doing here?” she demanded. “Sherlock don’t need groupies egging him on. He’s got ego enough without a fan club.”

John gritted his teeth angrily, but before either of them could respond, Lestrade appeared behind Donovan and beckoned them in. “Mary! A pleasant surprise! I’m always glad to see you!” he said warmly, putting a friendly arm around her. He turned to John.

“Sorry, mate. I see you’re all dressed up for a night on the town,” the D. I. said apologetically. “I wouldn’t have called, but this has us stumped.”

“It’s our six-months anniversary,” John grumbled, knowing he was being ungracious but feeling ill-used and put-upon. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“Upstairs, examining the corpse.” Lestrade led the way, talking as he went. “It’s a locked-door scenario, mate. The door to the victim’s study was locked and bolted from the inside. It’s on the second story, and one of the windows is open—but there’s no way anyone could have climbed up to it without being seen. The killer would have had to carry a ladder around to get up there. And there’s no sign of the murder weapon.”

In the study, Sherlock was hovering over the corpse with a magnifying glass while a disgruntled Anderson stood over him with his arms crossed petulantly over his chest. 

“John! It’s about time you arrived. Come and look at this,” Sherlock commanded. He shoved the magnifying glass into John’s hand and pointed to the wound in the victim’s chest, just above the heart. 

John knelt to have a look. “Not a knife. Nor anything metal—there're tiny wood splinters in the wound. Not deep enough to have caused much damage. Poison, I would assume. Fairly fast-acting, but not so quick as to prevent him tearing his shirt open to have a look. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.”

Sherlock grinned. “I knew you’d agree! Anderson was insisting it was some sort of a screwdriver,” he sneered derisively. “I would guess a poisoned dart from a blowpipe, except the dart is nowhere to be found. Also, the victim was obviously standing right in front of the window looking at his assailant at the time—why would he not step away immediately if he saw the killer raise a blowgun to his mouth? It isn’t as if one could mistake it for anything else.”

“It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of,” Anderson scoffed. “We’re in London, not the wilds of Africa. Blowguns and poison darts. Nonsense.”

John looked over at Mary, standing by Lestrade and looking intensely interested. She had joined them at crime scenes a few times before, obviously fascinated by The Work. Now he wondered why he’d never thought to include her in the investigation. She was certainly far more intelligent and talented than Anderson! 

“Mary, come have a look. Tell me what you think,” he suggested.

She looked like a child who had just been offered her favourite sweet. “May I?” she asked Lestrade eagerly.

“Of course. I’d value your input,” Lestrade smiled. John hid a smirk. Lestrade adored Mary, having all but adopted her as a favoured daughter. She could do pretty much anything she wanted short of murder, and Lestrade would approve whole-heartedly.

“Now, I object!” Anderson complained. “It’s bad enough, Watson being here, mucking about with the evidence. At least he’s a surgeon. We don’t need an inexperienced bloody GP sticking her bloody nose in.”

“Watch it, mate,” John said darkly. He straightened up from where he’d been crouching by the body, his face threatening. Anderson took a step back warily.

Lestrade quickly stepped between them. “Anderson, you watch your filthy mouth in front of the lady,” he scolded. “John is here at my request, and if he wants a second opinion from a qualified physician, he may have it, and you will co-operate, understood?” He turned to Mary and gestured for her to go ahead. She twinkled at him cheerily and dropped to her knees by the victim, new dress and all, and accepted the magnifying glass from John.

“Watson IS the second opinion!” Anderson whined. “Why do we need a third opinion, I’d like to know?” He was ignored.

She was silent for a moment. Then she looked up at John with a sheepish expression. He was puzzled. He was sure he’d never seen that look on her face before. “What is it?” he asked quietly, concerned.

“Captain. I think I know what caused this. I think I’m quite sure I know,” she said hesitantly.

Sherlock stepped closer to her. “You’ve seen a wound like this before?” he inquired curiously.

“Um,” she pressed her lips together. “Yes. Actually, I’ve caused wounds like this before.”

The room grew quite still. John noticed Anderson’s mouth gaping wide open. Lestrade looked struck by lightning. Sherlock was absolutely delighted.

“Oh, that’s marvellous!” the detective murmured, enraptured. “Mary, you have hidden depths I’ve only suspected!”

Mary looked embarrassed. “Um, well. When I was about ten years old, I lived for a while with my great-uncle. He was quite elderly at the time, but for most of his life he’d been an anthropologist, studying indigenous tribes living on the Amazon River. He’d collected quite a store of artefacts, including primitive weapons. I was . . . really interested in those.”

John chuckled. “Of course, you were. Army brat,” he said affectionately.

She laughed. “Yeah, well it was a bit more than that, really. Anyway, he had several examples of estolica—that’s a sort of small atlatl . . . .” she trailed off, seeing she had lost them all. 

Anderson snorted. “She can make up anything she likes, and you lot will just be dazzled, won’t you? It’s all gibberish!”

Mary looked appealingly at Sherlock. “You must know what I’m talking about. Primitive dart-throwing weapons, like the Incas used, and the Quechua tribe in Ecuador.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Of course! I’ve read of such weapons. You can tie a thread to the butt of the dart so that you can retrieve it quickly and reuse it. It’s a fairly close-quarters weapon, not as efficient as a bow and arrow—but more easily concealed. You could carry it around the neighbourhood and no one would notice.”

Mary nodded. “Naturally, my uncle didn’t let me play with his artefacts, but he did let me examine them. It was quite easy to figure out how to make one from common, household items. I got quite good at shooting darts.”

“I’ll just bet you were,” John chuckled affectionately. “I imagine you were utterly terrifying!”

But Anderson was indignant. “You shot people with darts?” he exclaimed. “What a little hellion!”

“Anderson!” shouted John, Sherlock, and Lestrade in unison. Mary dimpled gratefully. Anderson backed down, holding his hands up placatingly. 

“Of course, she shot people with darts,” Sherlock huffed impatiently. “Who wouldn’t shoot people with darts, given the opportunity?”

“I’m sure she had a good reason.” John chortled, not even trying to hide his amusement. It tickled him to picture a ten-year-old Mary ambushing local bullies with her home-made dart thrower.

“At least, I didn’t poison the tips,” Mary reasoned. “And I only shot people who deserved it. Unfortunately, the school authorities didn’t agree with my sentiments. I got in a lot of trouble. My uncle was mortified. Although, he did admit I’d built a decent estolica for someone my age.”

Lestrade was choking with suppressed laughter. “Darlin’, I would just love to see that. In fact, I need to see that. I need to know if you could really shoot a dart up through that window from the garden below.”

Mary nodded. “I know I could. I mean, I could have sixteen years ago. I’m not sure how well I remember it now. I’ll try, if you need me to.”

John objected. “Can we do this tomorrow? We have a dinner reservation.” He looked at his watch. “Well, actually, no we don’t; not anymore. Mary, I’m so sorry. This is not how I meant us to spend the evening.”

But Mary, he noted with great pride and gratitude, seemed to be truly enjoying herself. Lestrade sent one of his men to the shops to pick up the items she needed, and she quickly fashioned a crude dart-thrower with the joy of a child playing with a new toy. The men crowded around her with rapt interest. Even Anderson was enthralled. John eyed Sherlock with a growing unrest—he hoped the detective was not getting any ideas.

“That’s the best I can do right now,” Mary said at last. 

Sherlock was beside himself. “Go down to the garden, then, and I’ll stand in the window where the victim was positioned. Then you can shoot me.”

Mary was aghast. “I certainly will not!” she exclaimed. “I mean, it doesn’t go in deep, but it’s still a puncture wound. I’m not an irresponsible ten-year-old anymore, Sweetheart. And anyway, I make it a policy to only shoot people who deserve to be shot.”

Sherlock sighed. “It would give me more accurate data to see how it works first-hand,” he argued; but Mary could not be moved. “All right, then, I’ll hold up this bolster and you can shoot it,” Sherlock conceded. Mary agreed and trotted down the stairs to go out to the garden with her new weapon. John followed, enjoying this new, bloodthirsty side to his wife that he had long suspected but had never seen.

It worked like a dream. Mary stood with the weapon at her side, and those above in the window could see only what looked like an ordinary stick in her hand. Suddenly she raised the estolica and fired in one, smooth motion. The dart flew through the air and into the bolster Sherlock held at chest level, puncturing it, then falling out again, jerked back by the thread tied to the butt. Mary reeled the dart back in quickly.

“Perfect!” Lestrade called down to her. “That was amazing!”

John and Mary looked at each and laughed. “Thanks for letting me help,” Mary smiled happily. 

“I’m glad you’ve been entertained, love,” John grinned. “But I do want to know, how many chaps did you shoot before you got caught?”

Mary smiled enigmatically. “As many as I wanted to,” she smirked.

They headed home at last, tired and satisfied with a job well done.

But they never did get any dinner.


	4. One More Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our determined couple set off for Angelo's once more. Will they ever actually have their dinner date?

It had been a long day at the clinic, and she was fairly exhausted. But they had promised each other to grab whatever chances came along for quality time together. She and John sat in the armchairs in the Baker Street flat and tried to decide what to do with their free evening.

Mary’s normal procedure at the end of a shift was to text John and find out where he was. If he were deeply involved in a case and expected to work late into the night (or all night), she would consider just going home and they would text back and forth. Occasionally, she would join them at a crime scene, offer an opinion, and visit with Lestrade. If he were at Sherlock’s, researching or helping with experiments or being a sounding-board for Sherlock’s deductions, she would join them there, cook them dinner, and help out as much as she could. Sometimes, her boys were at St. Bart’s, and she would go enjoy Molly’s company while she watched them work, often joining in on whatever they were doing. There was always something interesting happening, and she never knew where she would be at the end of each day. 

This evening, Sherlock and John had just wrapped up a case and had nothing new to work on. Sherlock intended spending time on his website, updating his treatise on types of tobacco ash. This left John and Mary at loose ends. They actually had nothing whatever to do.

“We should go out to dinner,” John suggested. “We’ve been trying to go out to dinner for almost two months now and haven’t managed it yet. Let’s walk down to Angelo’s.”

Mary dimpled. “We tried that once, remember? We didn’t quite get that far.”

“We’ll make it this time,” John said confidently. “Whatever crime is committed in front of us, we will ignore it and go right on. We will also ignore Lestrade if he comes up with a case. Let’s be completely irresponsible tonight!”

“And Sherlock will not text us all evening, will you Sweetheart?” Mary added.

“Only in a dire emergency,” Sherlock intoned, not looking up, engrossed in his work.

“And the definition of dire is. . . .” John prompted.

“I must be clutched in the grasp of the grim reaper,” Sherlock sighed sarcastically, rolling his eyes dramatically, but still managing to keep them glued to his computer screen.

Mary chuckled affectionately. “You’re too cute. Text us if you need us, Sweetheart. Whoever it was who hired those thugs to kill you is still out there. I know Mycroft has people watching, but be careful.”

Sherlock tore his attention from his laptop long enough to look her in the eye. A tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth. Then he turned back to his work. “Try not to be such a worrier,” he said in a bored-sounding monotone. 

“I love you, too,” she returned with knowing smile.

She grabbed John’s hand as they strolled down the street, feeling the fatigue of the day drop away as she anticipated a romantic evening with her handsome husband. Then she felt his hand tighten over hers convulsively. 

“We’re being followed,” he told her in a hushed voice.

She frowned. “How do you know?”

He gave her a dark look from under his eyebrows. 

“Sorry. Of course you know,” she murmured. “It couldn’t just be some of Mycroft’s people, could it?”

“Why would Mycroft need to have anyone follow us when he has access to all the CCTV in the city?” John reasoned. “And if he wanted to kidnap us, he’d have sent a limo.”

Mary nodded thoughtfully. “You think they’ve been sent from whoever was trying to kill Sherlock last month,” she stated.

“Could be,” he said cautiously. “Perhaps whoever it is would like to get rid of us, as well.”

“Well, you, anyway,” Mary mused. “Who even knows I exist?”

“Let’s try to give them the slip,” John suggested. “Feel like running a bit?”

“I’m game for anything,” Mary agreed cheerfully.

They walked on at a normal pace until they reached the next alley, then darted into the darkness between buildings and scurried up a fire escape. Once on the rooftops, they could look down and see their pursuers, two men in their twenties dressed in jeans and t-shirts, looking around in bewilderment.

“Not very good at their work,” John remarked. “A bit insulting, sending morons after us.” He pulled his mobile out of his pocket.

Being stalked. Watch yourself. JW

Notified Mycroft. Don’t be such a worrier. Enjoy your date. SH

By the time they had finished this exchange, their stalkers had disappeared down the street. John looked determined. “Come on. We’re going out to dinner if it’s the last thing we do!” They trotted across the roof, hopped over to the next building, and rounded a series of skylights and utility sheds until they were above another alley on the next street over. Back down another fire escape, round a corner, and they were at the back entrance of Angelo’s restaurant, panting a bit.

They burst into the kitchen and paused to catch their breath. The stir they caused among the staff soon brought Angelo himself into the room. 

“John! My little friend!” the big man exclaimed, grasping the doctor by the shoulders and shaking him affectionately. “You have come to see your old friend Angelo! Come, come, I’ll give you best table in the house.”

“You remember my wife, Mary.” John interrupted this burst of enthusiasm politely.

Angelo pulled her into a bear hug. “The little angel who won the doctor’s heart!” he cried dramatically. “Any wife of John’s is a friend of mine, my dear!” Mary was relieved that Angelo had apparently revised his former opinion that she was a demonic usurper who had stolen his friend Sherlock’s true love from under his nose. The fact that Sherlock, far from heartbroken, had treated Mary as a valued friend must have helped to heal the restaurateur’s injured feelings. He led them with great pomp through the kitchen and ushered them into the dining area. 

“That couple in the window seat—I’ll get rid of them! You must have that table. It is my best table for my best friends!” he declared.

“No! No, thank you, Angelo,” John interjected. “We really want to be in the back. Alone. You know, inconspicuous.” 

Angelo winked. “Ah, a little time to yourselves, eh? Romance is in the air! I will bring you TWO candles!” He led them to a table in a dark corner at the back of the room. John seated himself with his back to the wall so that he had a clear view of the entire dining room.

“My most famous guests! Order whatever you want, on the house! A small repayment for all the new business you have brought me!” Angelo continued.

“What do you mean?” John looked up at the big man suspiciously.

“You and Sherlock! The famous detective duo! I tell everyone that you frequent my humble establishment! See!” Angelo indicated a piece of paper stuck to the wall over the front bar. It was a copy of John’s blog, printed from the internet. Beside it was a newspaper cutting with Sherlock’s picture prominently featured. Mary snickered. John rolled his eyes.

“Just bring us your house wine, please,” he said with a long-suffering sigh, and Angelo bustled away.

Mary had just begun to peruse her menu when John froze and tapped her hand. “They’re here!” he said without moving his lips. She noted that although his face remained composed with a neutral expression, he was now on high alert. She saw his hand reach into his jacket and heard the tiny snap of a safety being released. Apparently he was wearing his shoulder holster—a most practical wedding gift from Sherlock. John had been pleased with the tenth of a second it shaved from the time it took to draw his firearm, as opposed to having to reach round behind his back to get it.

“They’re sitting two tables away,” he said calmly. “Odd. They’re staring quite openly at us.”

“Not very professional of them,” Mary commented. “I don’t know if I like being pursued by amateurs. It’s beyond insulting.”

“They’ve called Angelo over. They’re talking to him and . . . pointing at us.” John sounded annoyed. “How do we attract the most imbecilic criminals in London? This is ridiculous.”

Angelo returned to their table with the wine and the promised two candles. “So what will you have?” he demanded magnanimously as he poured. “Anything, anything your little hearts desire!”

“Who are those people you were just talking to?” John asked casually.

“They asked about you,” Angelo confided. “People come in here and ask about you and Sherlock all the time. Everyone knows you are personal friends of Angelo!”

“Ever seen them in here before?” 

“Many times! They’re good customers. They come in all the time and ask if I have seen you. For too long, I’ve had to tell them ‘no’! You’re too busy to come see your old friends!”

John sighed. “Yes, we’ve been very busy. Just bring us your special, thanks.”

When Angelo was safely away, Mary leaned towards him. “Maybe we should just leave.”

John was exasperated. “We’ve managed to actually make it inside a restaurant and order food. It’s the closest we’ve come to an actual date since our honeymoon. I refuse to just give up.”

“You’re right. This is our night off. The criminals will just have to respect that!” she declared.

Then John’s face changed. She knew that look: the calm, determined army officer had taken over. He surreptitiously slipped his weapon out of its holster and held it under the table, unseen. “When I say get down, drop to the floor,” he told her quietly. She nodded trustingly. 

“Dr Watson?” she heard a voice just behind her head. She held her breath and kept very still, ready to move instantly when John gave her the signal.

“Yes,” John said, sounding perfectly at ease. She was impressed by all he managed to convey with that one word. His face and tone were entirely courteous and civil; and yet there was an icy menace beneath the veneer that was terrifying. 

“Erm.”

Mary’s eyebrow raised. Do assassins say ‘Erm’?

“I know it’s an imposition, but, erm,” the voice continued, and Mary could not resist turning around to look at this remarkably awkward criminal. He and his friend were nervously fidgeting and had awed expressions on their earnest faces.

“We’re such big fans. Can we get your autograph?” the boy finished.

John stared at them, a most remarkable look on his face of combined astonishment and embarrassment. Mary hid a smile.

“Ah, sure, mate,” her intrepid husband said with a forced smile. He put his gun back in its holster, much to the wide-eyed amazement of his fans, and took the pen and paper they were holding out to him. Two signatures later, it was all over, and the fanboys returned to their table with a fabulous story to tell to their grandchildren.

Mary dissolved into helpless laughter. She had to put her head on the table to stop herself from sliding under it, convulsed in giggles. John snickered, his face hidden in his hand.

And then Angelo brought them their dinner. It was a triumph of culinary delight well-worth waiting for.


	5. Giving Up On Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary is kidnapped and goes completely off the idea of dinner dates for some time.

In retrospect, John realized they all ought to have taken that threat on Sherlock’s life much more seriously. The detective had dispatched his attackers single-handedly the first time; and there had been no sign of the man who had hired the assassins in the two months since. And so, they had become complacent. And now they were paying the price for their carelessness.

He and Mary had left their flat that morning as usual, she heading to the clinic, he bound for Baker Street to meet with Sherlock. He had arrived and was on the point of indulging in Mrs. Hudson’s famous blueberry scones; but first, he had texted his wife, as was his custom. And she had not replied.

“Mary’s not answering,” John said aloud.

Sherlock grunted, absorbed in the research he was conducting on his laptop.

“She never doesn’t answer,” John insisted. 

“Perhaps her phone battery died. Or she dropped it on the tube. Or when she arrived at the clinic, she was instantly swamped with work and hasn’t time for you just now,” Sherlock replied impatiently. “She’s a grown woman, John. She doesn’t have to check in with you as if she were a delinquent pre-adolescent.”

John sighed. Sherlock had never really understood why John and Mary texted constantly throughout the day. He seemed to believe that John was just an obsessive worrier and had never grasped the emotional impact Mary’s past had had on her psyche. But John had come to realize early on that Mary, the most fearless person he knew, was nevertheless terrified of people disappearing; and rightly so, since practically everyone she had ever cared about had, at least in seeming, disappeared. Because of this, he made it a practice to text her often throughout the day, using any flimsy excuse, just to reassure her that he had not vanished from the earth. And she always, always answered his texts. Now, it seemed, she was the one who had vanished.

An hour crawled by, and as he skimmed through the morning newspapers for usable information, he had to physically restrain himself from ludicrously sending multiple texts; as if she might magically receive the tenth one even if she hadn’t received the previous nine. “I’m calling the clinic,” he announced at last into the silence. Sherlock frowned and shook his head sarcastically, but John dialled the number anyway. As he had feared, Mary had not arrived at the clinic that morning, and no one had heard from her. A cold, sick feeling churned in the pit of his stomach. But there must be a perfectly logical explanation. Mustn’t there?

“Sherlock, could you check the incident reports on the tube?” he requested, trying to sound calm.

Sherlock looked exasperated. “John, she’s a little late. Perhaps she ran into a friend and got talking. Perhaps she lost her bag and had to go look for it,” Sherlock reasoned, irritated at the interruption. “She’s not a child, and she doesn’t deserve to be treated as one.”

“No, she’s not a child. Unlike some people I know, she’s a very responsible person. She would never just get distracted and not show up at work; certainly not without calling in. She would never just take off and not let anyone know. Please just check the incident reports for me,” John replied with equal annoyance.

“No incidents reported,” Sherlock said. “All of the lines have been clear and on time all morning. That’s rather astounding, actually. We should stop all our work and take time to celebrate this phenomenon,” he added a bit scathingly.

John could not believe his friend didn’t seem to understand how alarming this news was. “It must be something worse, then. Check the Met reports for incidents on her route from the tube station to the clinic.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John didn’t give him a chance. His alarm was igniting his temper, and he snapped, “Fine, then, I’ll do it myself,” and pulled his own laptop out of his bag and turned it on. He begrudged every extra second it took to pull up the information himself on his slower computer. Sherlock ignored him, going on with his own tasks.

“The Café Nero down the street from the clinic was robbed this morning. Police found the entire staff tied up and locked in a storage closet. But nothing was taken. Sherlock, Mary always stops in that shop for coffee on her way to work. This would have happened right about the time she arrived there.”

Now he had Sherlock’s full attention. “She goes to the same place every day at the same time? John, we ought to have warned her to vary her daily routines, not to become predictable. Those assassins last month . . . . We’ve been lax.” He whipped out his mobile and called the familiar number he never wanted to call.

“Mycroft. The Café Nero close to Mary’s clinic. Check the CCTV around 9:00 this morning and see whether she was there,” he said tersely, without preamble. He waited, tapping his fingers impatiently. John stood over him, as still as if he’d frozen into place, his anxiety rising with every passing second.

Sherlock looked up at John with stricken eyes. “She went in, but she never came out,” he said flatly, his even tone belying his concern. “She wasn’t among those found tied up in the storage closet. The security cameras in the shop were expertly disabled so as to look like a harmless computer glitch. There are no cameras near the back entrance or in the alley behind it. She could have been taken anywhere.”

John tried to shove the panic that was rising within him down into the back of his mind with great effort. He had been under enemy fire in Afghanistan; he had been kidnapped and threatened by murderers; and he had never been more afraid in his life than he was in that moment. For a few dreadful seconds, he allowed himself to experience what life would be like without Mary in it—a hollow life; mere, colourless, empty existence bereft of joy and laughter. He deliberately snapped himself out of it. He did not have time to feel just now. Now was the time to take action.

“Let’s go,” he barked, and Sherlock followed him out of the flat. They snagged a taxi and called Lestrade on the way. The Met was, of course, handling the break-in at the coffee shop; but when Lestrade heard that Mary had been there and had disappeared, he dropped what he was doing and took charge of the case immediately. In fact, he arrived on the scene before they did, having the advantage of a siren.

But it seemed to be all for naught. The staff didn’t know anything. The robbers had burst in from the back alley, wearing masks. Holding one of the cooks hostage, they gained control of the others easily, dressed themselves in employee uniforms, and then they were gone. What they had done while the staff were in the closet was anyone’s guess. 

“How could we let this happen?” John cried out in frustration, tearing at his hair with both hands. “How could we be so stupid?” 

“I blame myself,” Lestrade admitted, his face a study in anger and concern. “After a week or two, I let the investigation drop in priority. I didn’t take the threat seriously enough.”

“None of us did,” John assured him. “This isn’t just your fault. We’re all to blame.”

Sherlock turned grief-stricken eyes to them. “I am to blame. She was taken to get to me. This wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t befriended me.”

John put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Well, that isn’t an option, is it? She’s your friend because she chose to be. You didn’t have any say in the matter. I could say it’s entirely my fault, for marrying her. I put her at risk. But right now, we have to find her!”

Lestrade put his best people on the case. Sherlock called Mycroft and demanded he find Mary immediately. There was nothing else they could do but wait. John, desperate to do something, found this forced inaction unbearable. He felt he would explode if a course of action did not present itself soon. He and Sherlock paced the flat, barely capable of speaking, unable to preoccupy their minds with thoughts other than nightmare visions of what might be happening to Mary.

At three that afternoon, the waiting came to an end—Sherlock’s cell signalled an incoming call from an unknown number. “Yes?” he snapped, putting the mobile on speaker so that John could hear.

“Sherlock Holmes? Is Dr Watson with you?” the voice demanded. John quickly called Lestrade on his own phone, asking him to trace the call.

“This is Sherlock Holmes. Dr Watson is also here,” Sherlock said cautiously.

“You put our father in prison. He died there. A death sentence for cybercrime,” the voice said coldly. “Now I have your lady friend. Are you prepared to let her die?”

“You sent hired assassins, and they didn’t succeed. Since then, security around me has greatly increased. You have found it impossible to kill me without exposing yourself. Therefore, you plotted to make use of someone I care about to get to me,” Sherlock deduced angrily, stalling for time. “She is utterly innocent. Let her go, and I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“You’re right, you will. You and the doctor give yourselves up to us, and we’ll let her go, unharmed,” the voice said flatly. “I’ll text you the address. Be there alone in one hour or she’s dead.”

John sought out Sherlock’s eyes. He felt gratitude as he saw in his friend’s aspect that he was quite as ready to give his life for Mary as John was himself. However, neither of them had lost their good sense.

“How do we know you really have Mary and that she is still alive?” Sherlock demanded hoarsely. “Let us talk to her.”

“Predictable!” the villain snapped back. “Here she is, then.”

A second of silence; then Mary’s voice. She sounded perfectly composed. “Captain?”

John snatched the phone from Sherlock’s hand. “Mary,” he whispered, barely able to speak past the choking sensation in his throat. “Are you all right?”

“Don’t do anything foolish on my account, either of you. Don’t do anything he says.”

“Shut up, bitch,” they could hear her captor snarl, but she soldiered on with what she wanted to say.

“Remember the heron in Hyde Park. We laughed, and it . . . .”

She gasped as the sharp sound of a slap was heard. The kidnapper’s voice returned. “One hour, or she’ll get so much worse. I’ll cut her throat and dump her in the Thames,” it growled. The mobile went dead. John’s grip on it tightened until the casing cracked.

“Sherlock,” he said tightly through gritted teeth. “He’s hurting her.”

His friend nodded grimly. “We’ll find her, John. And they will pay dearly for every injury they’ve inflicted on her,” he vowed. “What was that clue she gave us?”

John roused himself to think. "Hyde Park. That's where we were the evening you were attacked. We saw a heron—it flew away because we were laughing. She kept saying that everything was lovely, and we were laughing.” His voice cracked as he recalled how wonderfully carefree that afternoon together had been. “I told her she’d think sumo wrestling a crocodile would be lovely. Yeah, I know, it makes no sense; you had to be there. Wait: before that, I suggested going to dinner at a new bistro down the street from our flat.” He thought for a second. “Sherlock, I checked that place out in case we ever actually got a chance to go there for dinner. It’s closed on Mondays. Today is Monday. It’s deserted.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “She isn’t blindfolded; she knows where she is. John, they don’t intend letting her go, even if we did give ourselves up to them.”

“I know,” John said tersely, his face filled with fury.

He picked his own mobile up again, Lestrade still on the other end. The call to Sherlock’s phone had been untraceable, but it didn’t matter. The kidnappers had sent the text, and they told the D.I. their plan to capture Mary’s captors. Then they were on their way to her rescue, not wasting a second of their precious hour.

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In retrospect, Mary realized they all ought to have taken that threat on Sherlock’s life much more seriously. Mycroft’s increased security measures at the flat had seemed to do the trick, and they had all relaxed their guard. And even though she had remained concerned over Sherlock’s and John’s safety, it had never occurred to her that she might be a target as well. After all, who even knew about her? The men in her life were protective of her privacy to an extreme. John never mentioned her in his blog; in fact, he carefully never made mention of his private life at all. Mycroft and Lestrade kept any mention of her out of all official reports and news releases. Even most of her colleagues at work seemed not to realize that the Watson she had married was the same Watson mentioned in the tabloids. Only their closest friends or someone deliberately looking for her would know about her relationship to the famous duo.

Now, tied to a chair in a pantry in a restaurant, she felt a helpless kind of fury at being used against her husband and her closest friend in this way. She looked at the man guarding her with a shred of satisfaction at having bloodied his nose for him with her head when he first grabbed her at Café Nero. It had earned her blow across the face, but she had hardly felt it at the time.

“Do as I say and do it quietly, or I’ll start yanking hostages out of that closet and shooting them,” her captor had snarled. She stopped struggling then and submitted to being tied up and thrown into the back seat of a car.

Her hands were growing numb, each tied to an arm of the chair she was sitting on. Her legs were numb, too, tied to the chair legs. The gag had dried her mouth, making her desperately thirsty, and it rubbed against the cut on her lip and the swelling bruise on her cheek. There were five men that she had seen—two of them seemed to be brothers and in charge--and at least one of them was always with her in the closet. How could she escape?

She wished she had access to a clock. She knew that her boys had one hour to comply with her kidnappers’ demands, and the time was passing at an agonizing pace. She also knew that they would have easily deciphered her message and would have realized that her captors were not planning to let her go, whatever they did. She wished that they would act accordingly and not put themselves at risk. There was no point in all three of them being killed. At the same time, she knew perfectly well that they would attempt to rescue her. She just hoped they would hurry. She’d been trapped in this hard chair nearly all day, and she ached all over.

“It’s time,” of the bosses said, just outside her door. “Pete, you stay here and wait for our call; the rest of us will go to the meeting site and perform an execution. And you listen to me, Pete,” he went on sternly. “You are not to kill her before you get my call. You know they won’t show themselves without checking that she’s still all right. I want this to be an execution, not a fire-fight.”

Pete indicated that he understood the plan. “I ain’t stupid, Charlie,” he grunted, insulted.

“And don’t hit her in the face anymore,” other voice reminded Pete. “If she can’t talk clearly, they might think it isn’t her at all, and it’ll complicate things unnecessarily. If you must hit her, hit something besides her mouth, you twat.”

Pete protested, but his companions noisily left. Mary sighed into her gag and prayed John and Sherlock were not planning to meet them on their own terms. 

A commotion outside confirmed they were not.

Pete jumped into the pantry with Mary and locked the door behind him. “Someone’s here!” he gasped. “Keep quiet or I’ll end you.” He pulled out a firearm and put the end of the barrel against her temple. Mary could hear the sound of doors opening and closing and heavy breathing in the kitchen area outside her pantry prison. The doorknob to the pantry rattled. Then the door was kicked open, and John was there, looking like some furious, avenging spirit and pointing his own weapon at her captor. Sherlock immediately appeared over John’s shoulder, anger smouldering in his expression.

“I’ll kill her! Put your gun down!” Pete shouted at them.

Sherlock snarled at him, “You must realize you can’t leave this room alive if you kill her. The only possible way for you to remain among the living is for you to lay your weapon down and surrender. And even then, I can’t vouch for your chances with John.”

She could hear Pete’s uncertainty in his unsteady breathing beside her. She looked at her husband’s expression and thought that if this man had any sense of self-preservation whatsoever, he’d give up immediately. John’s face was terrifying in his wrath, and hands were completely steady.

Pete’s decision was made suddenly, his solution to his dilemma to duck behind his captive’s chair for cover and shift his aim from her temple to the back of her head. In the split second it took for him to adjust his position, John’s finger twitched, and the kidnapper dropped like a stone, a trickle of blood leaking from the wound between his staring eyes. 

Instantly, John dropped his firearm and went to his knees at her feet. He gently pulled the gag from her mouth and tenderly touched the swelling on her cheek. “Mary,” he rasped hoarsely. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I’m okay. It’s just superficial,” she assured him. He gently wiped the blood from her split lip with a trembling thumb. 

Behind John, Sherlock was on his mobile with Lestrade, who was waiting at the kidnappers’ appointed meeting place. “She’s safe. You can move in now. Yes, she’s fine, just a bit bruised. We do need a coroner’s wagon, though. Her kidnapper has apparently managed to get himself killed.”

John had pulled out a pocket knife and was slicing through the bonds that tied her hands to the chair arms. Sherlock shoved his phone away and pulled out his own knife, cutting the ropes that bound her feet. And then she was free. John carefully looked her over, taking inventory of every abrasion, contusion, and rope burn, his face growing darker with each injury he discovered. Mary thought Pete was probably lucky he was already dead; if it were possible, John would undoubtedly kill him a second time, and more slowly.

Finally, he helped her to her feet. It felt good to stand after being locked in one position for so long. But her legs didn’t want to work, and she fell into him heavily. He wrapped his arms around her and held her for a long time. “Mary. I’ve never been so frightened in my life,” he murmured into her hair. “Don’t ever get kidnapped again. I can’t take it.”

“I’ll try,” she assured him, her voice muffled in his jacket. “I’m just thankful you’re all right. I was so afraid they’d kill you and Sherlock before you could catch them.”

“Not a chance. Look how inept they are,” Sherlock intoned. 

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It was hours before they could finally return to their flat. The trio collapsed in John and Mary’s sitting room and wearily dug into their Chinese takeaway. According to the report, Mary’s kidnapper had clumsily shot himself in the forehead just before the two, unknown do-gooders stumbled upon the crime scene and discovered her. John and Mary had not taken part in the report-making; he was seeing to it that her injuries were cleaned and bandaged and properly kissed.

“The owner of the bistro where you were being held showed up while you were in the infirmary,” Sherlock informed them. “He was dismayed that his establishment had been used for such a heinous purpose. He has assured us that we may dine there free of charge at any time, in perpetuity.”

Mary frowned. “To be honest, this has put me right off restaurants, good and proper. I think it’ll be a long time before I’ll ever want to go out to dinner again.”

John agreed. “I think, at least for the time being, we’ll just stay in.”

And so, John and Mary did not even attempt to go out to dinner again for months--until their one year anniversary. But that’s another story. . . .


	6. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes deal with Mary's kidnapping, and Mary, with Sherlock's help, learns the true extent of John's post-traumatic stress disorder.

She had never been kidnapped before and was unsure of how she was to react to the experience. Home at last after John and Sherlock’s daring rescue of her, Mary tried to eat her dinner with the nonchalance that she believed would be the proper response to her ordeal. In truth, in spite of the threat of the gunman to shoot her, the blows she’s endured to her face, and the rope burns on her arms and legs, the only part of her arduous day that lingered in her mind was the terror of knowing John had been in danger because of her. That, and the grievous knowledge that he had been forced to kill a man to save her.  
When he and Sherlock had kicked in the door of the restaurant pantry and found her, tied to a chair with a gun to her temple, John had been completely cool-headed and controlled and his hands as steady as a rock. After it was all over, he still had remained calm, comforting her, checking her out and treating her injuries. But now they were home; the adrenaline that had kept them going all that long day was wearing off, leaving them limp with exhaustion and allowing their bodies to react at last to the horror of what had nearly happened to them. Sherlock dealt with the situation by shutting down, sitting in complete quiet without moving a muscle. John, on the other hand, was busying himself with tasks, constantly moving around the flat. His limp had returned, and she noticed with grief that the tremor in his left hand was growing increasingly evident. Mary noticed Sherlock watching John surreptitiously through slitted eyes. 

“I’m making more tea,” John announced, taking his jittery self into the kitchen to perform yet another unnecessary task. When he was out of sight, Mary went to Sherlock’s chair and crouched down beside him. 

“This is what you were warning me of, that day you told me about his condition,” she murmured, and Sherlock nodded. She sighed. “This is my fault. He shot that man because of me.”

“No.” Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at her. “You didn’t ask to be kidnapped. Lay the blame at the kidnapper’s door. As for John, he knows he did the right thing, and he will reconcile himself to it eventually as he always does. Just be prepared—tonight will be a danger night.”

 

Mary took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it. “Yes, I know. I’m glad you’re here, Sweetheart.” She knew the detective would spend the night with them, as he always did after a particularly violent case. It was an unspoken agreement between the two men that they stay within shouting distance of each other for a time after a close call. Mary was now naturally included in this arrangement and was grateful for it. It was important to her, as well, to know that both her boys were near and safe at times like this.

Even so, she had never yet experienced John’s PTSD symptoms first-hand. Although close calls abounded in their line of work, John had not been in the position of having to use deadly force on a case since he and Mary had begun to see each other. But now, after seven months of marriage, it seemed she was being initiated into this aspect of his life at last.

She went into the kitchen, careful to make her presence known so as not to startle her husband, and put her arms around him. “I’m going to take a shower, Captain. I smell like a restaurant and that monster’s after-shave. I wonder if I’ll ever feel clean again!” she joked gently. 

He nodded, looking at her with worried eyes. “It will help you relax and ease the ache in your muscles,” he agreed. “You must feel stiff as a post after being tied in one position most of the day. Take your time, love, and call me if you need me.”

She kissed him and went into the bedroom to carefully peel off her clothes and step into the warm spray. The water hurt her raw wrists and ankles and made her cut lip sting, but it felt good on her bruises and aching muscles and joints. She sighed and gave herself up to the feeling for a moment, and to the remarkable knowledge of being so cherished and cared for. John and Sherlock, with Greg and Mycroft, had torn the city apart that day looking for her; and they had both been willing to give up their lives to save hers. Never in her young life had she been loved so well, and she did not take it lightly. 

But now her mind turned back to nine months earlier, when Sherlock had first told her of John’s affliction.

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It was the morning after John had proposed to her. They had spent all that night dancing and talking about the future, and much of that talk had centred on Sherlock. They were both determined to assure the detective that John would continue to work with him as usual and that his life would be disrupted as little as possible. And so, when John had been called into work that morning, it seemed natural for Mary to go to Sherlock’s flat and tell him of their decisions. 

She had cooked breakfast and they had eaten together and talked quite pleasantly all morning. And then, as she was preparing to leave, Sherlock had said, “Mary, may I be frank?”

“I hope you’ll always be frank with me, Sherlock,” Mary had replied earnestly. 

He had escorted her to the sofa and sat beside her, looking as uncertain as she’d ever seen him. After all, he’d really only known her a few months, and while she knew he liked her well enough and they got on quite well, they were hardly confidants as yet.

“You know, I suppose, that John suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder,” he began slowly. 

She nodded. “He’s told me as much, but I’ve rarely seen any symptoms of it. He told me it presents with phantom pain to his old shrapnel wounds in his leg and a tremor in his left hand, a result of nerve damage from being shot in the shoulder.”

Sherlock’s mouth hung open in surprise. “Wait, shrapnel wounds?” he demanded impatiently. “He never told me he’d taken shrapnel in his leg. He admitted his limp was psychosomatic.” 

“Well, it was, rather,” Mary smiled at his confusion. “It’s well healed up and there’s no physical reason for pain or for a limp anymore.”

“But,” Sherlock seemed stuck on this point. “But, he never said. . . . Are you sure?”

Her dimples deepened in amusement. “Quite sure. Seen the scars myself. Upper right thigh.”

“Hmm.” He frowned, hating to be wrong even in the smallest point. “There’s always something. Ah, well, that’s hardly the point, though, it is?” He turned his remarkable gaze upon her seriously and studied her for a moment. She endured it, knowing that he needed to process things in his own way.

“You and John are determined, then, to continue this relationship?” he said at last.

“Until death do us part,” Mary smiled gently. She so wanted to reassure him that all would be well.

“All right, then, assuming that is true, I feel it only right and proper that you should be fully informed about John’s condition. Unlike most persons with PTSD, John’s isn’t triggered by danger or stress. What brings on the symptoms are feelings of uselessness or purposelessness. That is why you have never seen it manifested. He feels quite useful and purposeful working with me.”

Mary agreed enthusiastically. “Yes, he’s told me as much. We’re both quite thankful for you and The Work,” she assured him.

“But there’s more,” he went on. “When events occur in which his only recourse is to resort to deadly force, it triggers nightmares. No, night terrors would be a more appropriate term. I first experienced this the night he moved in, the night he shot the cabbie to save my life. He woke me up with his shouting, and I was unable to rouse him out of that state for some time.”

“That’s all right, I can endure a bit of shouting and tossing about,” Mary began, but Sherlock was not finished and held up an imperious hand.

“Mary, I’ve told you that John is one of the most dangerous men you’ve ever met,” he reminded her soberly. “He is every bit as dangerous when he’s asleep as he is when he is awake.” The detective looked her over carefully and nodded to himself. “You are a small person. He could easily snap your neck without ever being aware of what he was doing.”

She gaped at him as she realized what he was saying. “You know this from experience, don’t you? He hurt you when you tried to wake him from his dream. Oh, how dreadful! He must have felt wretched when he woke up and realized what he’d done to you!”

If Sherlock noticed that all of Mary’s sympathies seemed to be with John and not with John’s victim, he didn’t seem to resent it. In fact, if anything, he seemed to agree with her sentiments. “I never told him. He had me in a choke hold, but I managed to get out of it without too much damage to myself or to him. By the time he was himself again, I was recovered and able to hide the bruises. It helps to always wear a scarf, you know.”

Mary was stunned. “You never told him? Sherlock, he throttles people in his sleep. Isn’t that something he should be made aware of?”

“Why?” Sherlock looked honestly confounded. “It would only serve to make him feel needless guilt and to lose sleep, which he apparently needs. Knowing about it won’t help him to stop.” He thought a moment, then continued. “He is aware of this condition enough to entrust his weapon to me on danger nights. He just doesn’t realize the full extent of his nocturnal behaviour.”

“But, Sherlock, what if he’d harmed someone else? He would have felt horrible about it!” Mary, exasperated, insisted. “How could you never tell him?”

“You misunderstand,” he replied calmly. “The night terrors only occur after John has been forced to cause someone’s death to save someone else’s life. Obviously, this is not a frequent state of affairs. I mean really, Mary, how many people do you think John has killed in the past few years? On the extremely rare occasions it has been necessary to take precautions, I’ve always found it easy to control events to ascertain that I be present and awake.”

She sighed, “You’re right, of course. You’re a good friend, Sherlock. Thank you for looking after him.” She smiled at him affectionately. “Is there anything else I should know about John before I make my vows?”

“Actually, speaking of sleep, he seems to require an inordinate amount: five or six hours a night, sometimes more. And he eats constantly, two or three, or even four times a day. It’s like living with an infant sometimes,” Sherlock complained.

When Mary was able to stop laughing, she gasped out, “I’m sure I can cope with that! Oh, Sherlock, you’re a wonder! You put up with all of John’s little foibles with such grace. You know, most people would object to their flatmate trying to kill them, but you just brush it off as if it were nothing!”

“He’s not boring,” Sherlock explained, smirking. “And apparently we are two of kind, then, as I can see that you have no intention of breaking your engagement to him, even though I’ve just explained to you that you’re taking your life in your hands every time you sleep with him.”

Mary smirked right back. “You’re quite right. He isn’t boring. I can’t bear boring people,” she grinned.

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And so now she stepped out of the shower and gingerly dried herself off, trying to avoid aggravating the bruises and abraded areas, and pulled on loose pyjamas and her dressing gown. She was so tired she could hardly move. It had been such a very long day.

“I’m having a last cuppa and heading to bed,” she announced to her boys as she re-entered the sitting room. They had been sitting in companionable silence, sipping their own tea, and she filled her cup and joined them, staring into the fire. It was amazing to think that only that morning she had been taken at gunpoint and threatened with death. Now she felt entirely at peace, the cup warming her hands, her husband alive and at her side, their best friend stretched out on the couch in restful repose. Her life was perfect; completely worth the occasional kidnapping.

Eventually, John took himself off to get ready for bed, and Mary roused herself to gather bedding for Sherlock to kip on the couch. He disliked their guestroom, insisting the couch was more to his liking, and so she brought him some blankets and a pillow and proceeded to make him comfortable. 

“Remember what I told you, Mary,” he intoned seriously. “And if anything happens, you can call me; or if you cannot breath, bang on the wall and I’ll be right there.”

“I will,” she promised, just as John re-entered the room, his service weapon in hand. Sherlock held out an expectant palm, and John relinquished the gun with a willingness that would have astonished Mary under any other circumstances. 

“Good-night, Sweetheart.” She kissed Sherlock’s cheek and swept off to bed at last, ready to face whatever might come.

 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

He had changed into night clothes and had brushed his teeth, but could not seem to stop moving. Mary watched him from where she was snuggled in bed and sighed.

“It’s very cold,” she hinted suggestively.

John stopped his pacing and looked at her with concern. “Shall I get another blanket, love?”

“I don’t want another blanket, Captain. I want you to come to bed,” Mary chuckled. “Not much at taking a hint, are you?”

John faked a long-suffering sigh. “If you insist.” He slid beneath the duvet and she curled up against him, shivering. He drew her into his arms and held her close. “I’m aware you’re just using me as an alternative heating source,” he murmured into her hair.

“Of course,” she teased. “That’s why I married you, you know. To keep me warm at night.”

“Hmm. Just yesterday, I thought you said you married me because I’m impossibly cute.” She could feel his cheek move in a smile against her head.

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” she whispered ardently in his ear. “How could cuteness be of any practical use against hypothermia?”

He laughed quietly and hugged her tightly. “What would I do without you? Mary, if anything had happened to you today, I . . . .”

“Don’t think about it.” She lifted her face up to look at him. “We both had a horrible fright today, but we’re all right now.” They lost themselves in a lingering kiss. 

“I’ll likely dream tonight,” he told her, cradling her head in one strong hand against his shoulder. “You’ve never had to endure my PTSD dreams before. Perhaps I should sleep in the guest room.”

“No!” she cried, a bit too fast, unable to endure the thought of being left alone. “I need you here tonight, where I can feel you. I spent the entire day terrified you would get yourself killed trying to rescue me. Anyway, I’m not afraid of your dreams.”

“You’re not afraid of much, are you? You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” John told her, then admitted, “I was living in a nightmare all day, thinking of what might be happening to you. I don’t believe I could sleep either, without you here.”

“Well then, that’s settled.” Mary kissed him again. “Let’s try to sleep a bit. I’m exhausted, and I know you must be, as well.”

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

She awoke in John’s bed back in Baker Street. Alone. How had it happened? The room was frigid and yet also stuffy, as if it had been long deserted. She gathered the blanket around herself for warmth and tiptoed towards the stairs. “Captain?” she whispered hopefully, nearly faint with dread. The silence lay heavy upon the house, stifling every sound. Her breath came in short, painful pants, frosty in the icy air.

Downstairs, the familiar sitting room was cold and dark and smelled of must. No one had lived here in very long time, according to the eloquent dust that covered every surface. “Captain?” she called, louder this time. Her voice fell dead to the floor. The flat was clearly devoid of all life, and a sense of desolation swept over her, a mantle of despair. She moved stealthily to Sherlock’s bedroom and peered in. “Sherlock? Are you there?” she called, quavering, knowing there would be no reply.

She rushed back into the kitchen, and now the pressing weight of loss turned to terror. “John! Where are you? Why aren’t you here?” she cried desperately. “John! Please!” Her breath hitched in a sob, and she dropped into a chair and knew she was alone. Entirely, completely, eternally alone. “Please don’t be gone,” she gasped, too devastated to weep.

A sudden warmth enveloped her and she heard his voice speak gently in her ear. “I’m here, love. It’s okay, I’m here.” And then she was truly awake and in her own bed, and John was there, holding her and murmuring comfort to her. She hid her face in his chest and breathed in the familiar, reassuring scent. 

“I’m sorry I woke you,” she said at last. He squeezed her tightly in answer.

“I hadn’t fallen asleep yet. Too keyed up, I guess,” he admitted. “You haven’t had that dream in a long time, have you? The one where everyone disappears.”

She drew a shuddering breath. It was like him to know that this was what her dream was about, rather than assuming she was reliving her kidnapping experience of that day. “No surprise, having it tonight, after I almost lost you. Again.”

“You won’t lose me. I promise I’ll never leave you,” he assured her. She knew he meant it sincerely. But she couldn’t help but think that, if he had been unable to find her that day; if he had decided to give in to the kidnappers’ demands and surrender himself to them, she might very well be mourning him tonight instead of clinging to him as if she were drowning.

Eventually, her racing heart slowed to a normal pace and she was able to relax against him, listening to him breathe. Now their roles were reversed, with John peacefully asleep at last and herself wakeful, soaking in his warm, solid presence, full of gratitude for his existence.

As an hour crept by, however, he grew more and more restless. At last she disentangled herself from his embrace, preparing for what surely was to come. “Remember what I told you,” Sherlock had said, and she did remember. “Don’t touch him. Don’t speak to him. Avoid making any sudden noises or movements that might startle him. Even when he sits up with his eyes open, wait! He will still not be fully conscious.”

It was harder than she had imagined, not touching him. She longed so much to comfort him both with her body and her words, as he tossed about, moaning and muttering, lost in his nightmare. She drew as far from him as she could manage without falling out of bed, staying out of the way of his flailing arms. He was fighting with his dreams, and it was horrifying to watch. She held breath and tried to be still as stone so as not to startle him. An almost imperceptible creak told her that Sherlock was at the bedroom door, keeping watch over them both, silent as a guardian angel. She felt him there but did not turn to look at him. How strange it was to know he was standing by to protect her from her own husband, and to protect John from himself.

John’s groans gave way to agonized shouting, and then suddenly one fist connected with her shoulder, knocking her sprawling to the floor. She gasped, but managed not to cry out, rubbing the new bruise which joined her already impressive collection of contusions. She heard Sherlock whisper, “Stay down!” But she did not need him to inform her of the wisdom of keeping out of the way of a possible follow-through. “Next time, I’ll know not to try to stay in bed,” she thought ruefully. 

Then with a final, heart-rending cry, he sat straight up, gasping for breath. She peered over the side of the mattress at him and stifled a sob. His eyes were wide and wild with grief, his face a study in horror, his chest heaved with emotion; and he whimpered her name in a broken, hollow voice. How she longed to hold him close and reassure him with her voice, as he had done for her only a short time before. But it would be of no lasting comfort to him to awaken to a throttled wife. She could not imagine what it would do to him to know he had harmed her in his sleep.

At last, he seemed to truly come to himself, pulling his knees up to his chest and covering his head with his hands, shaking uncontrollably. Mary glanced back at the doorway, and Sherlock nodded and then disappeared. Carefully, she crawled back into bed and cautiously approached him.

“Captain,” she murmured. “Captain, it’s all right. I’m here.” She tentatively stroked his hair. Yes, he was well and truly awake. So at last, she dared to wrap her arms around him and nuzzle her face against his ear. He sat still as stone, unable to respond. “Come back to me, Captain,” she said quietly but firmly. “That’s an order.” 

He drew a long, shuddering breath and lifted his head. “Mary? Are you okay?” he asked in a strangled voice. 

“Of course, darling. I’m always okay when you’re with me,” she said lightly, smiling through her tears. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head. “Just reliving the day,” he said softly. “Only it ended quite differently.”

“Live in the truth, Captain,” she encouraged him. “You found me in time. You saved me. You’re my hero.” 

He unfolded himself then and they clung to each other. “I only found you because you were clever enough to give me a clue they couldn’t decipher,” he told her admiringly. “You saved yourself.”

“We worked together. We’re quite a team,” Mary told him.

John pulled a long breath and let it out slowly, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe. They remained that way for a long time, getting used to the idea that the day was truly behind them. Then he moved to get out of bed. “I’m going to get cleaned up,” he said thickly.

“Good idea, Captain. I’ll make you a cuppa, shall I?” She pulled on her dressing gown and watched him until he disappeared into the bathroom. Then she walked on shaking legs into the sitting room, where Sherlock sat bolt upright on the sofa, waiting for her.

“Are you all right?” he asked with some concern. He’s seen the blow she’d taken, and was quite familiar with John’s right hook.

“It’s fine,” she said dismissively. “And he’ll never know about it, will he? We’re having tea; would you like a cuppa?”

“Certainly,” he agreed and followed her into the kitchen.

As she busied herself with the kettle, Mary pushed back a sob and softly observed, “It must be dreadful, to know you’ve taken a life. It’s no wonder he has such nightmares.”

Sherlock put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face him. “I don’t believe you truly understand the content of his dreams, Mary,” he told her. “John is a soldier. He doesn’t enjoy killing people, but he understands it’s part of his job. He regrets it when it becomes necessary, but it doesn’t horrify him or cause him to lose sleep.”

Mary looked at the detective in wonder. “What are you saying?” she asked.

“He isn’t reliving pulling the trigger, Mary. He’s living through the nightmare of what might have happened had he missed his shot.”

Mary’s breath caught, the full import of his words flooding through her. 

“If his aim had been the least bit off, he might have shot you accidentally. Or he might have missed his target and the kidnapper would have shot you himself. Either way, he loses you, and it’s entirely his own fault.”

 

“Good lord,” she cried in a low voice. “I never even considered that he could miss.”

“Of course not. You have complete faith in him and in his abilities, as do I. But he does not.” Sherlock took the now screaming kettle from the stove and poured the steaming water into the teapot. “That’s his greatest fear—failing to protect those he cares about: the ultimate type of uselessness. I should have thought you’d know that, Mary.” 

Mary considered Sherlock’s words as she followed him into the sitting room with the tray. “You’re quite right, of course. I did know it.” She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Sweetheart. You’re a good friend to us.”

“I know,” Sherlock said.


End file.
